


The Perfect Wife

by all_not_well



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anorexia, Boys Who Like Boys With Breasts, Boys With Breasts, Comeplay, Daddy!Kink, Drugged Sex, Fluffy Cutesy Name Changes, Forced Feeding, Forced Feminization, Identity confusion, M/M, Mindfuck, Mpreg (Suggestion Of), Object Insertion, Pseudo-heterosexuality, Sadistic Tendencies, dub-con, non-con, ooc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-14 01:38:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_not_well/pseuds/all_not_well
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't remember what he was like before he lost his memory...but the person in the mirror doesn't really feel like <i>him</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He doesn't know anything that came before this. His mind is a blank slate, wiped clean of every memory. There is nothing prior to waking up with a cock sunk deep in his arse and a warm, solid body looming over him, bright green eyes boring into his.

"Stay with me, now," the green-eyed man whispers against his lips. "Wake up, babygirl."

And there's something not quite right about that, because he doesn't think he's a girl, not really. Even though his chest is jiggling and oddly heavy, he's still fairly certain that he's got the wrong bits below.

But before he can find the words to question this, the green-eyed man is moving inside him, and just like that his thoughts are scattered to the wind.

He keens, pushing his arse up to meet the smooth, unhurried strokes of that thick cock. It's good, oh, sweet Circe, it's so good, fire surging in his veins with every rocking movement.

"Please," someone's saying, over and over, in a high, thin voice - and it takes him some time to realize that it's himself he's hearing, because there's something not-right about that too.

"Daddy's got you, sweetheart," the green-eyed man gasps out between each forceful thrust. "I've got you, love. Oh, Draco, baby. I'll take such good care of you."

Draco. The name tickles something in the back of his mind, but the thought is obscured by a haze of lust. He needs to - there's something, just beyond his reach--

"You need to come, baby?" the green-eyed man asks.

"Need to come," he moans in agreement as lightning sparks up his spine. He writhes beneath the man, moaning at the friction against his own hard cock, which is caught between their stomachs. "Please touch me," he pleads, shameless in his need. "Please let me come."

The man chuckles and sits back on his heels. He drags Draco further down the mattress with a firm grip on his hips, and hardly pauses in his steady fucking. 

"Little slut," the man says with a fond smile and a lazy roll of his hips. "Can't get enough of me, can you? You need me so bad. Need my cock in you."

Draco can't even respond to that as the green-eyed man finally, _finally_ wraps a hand around his cock. The man's palm is rough and callused, and the friction is pure bliss. Draco sobs, torn between thrusting into that perfect grip and pushing back onto that exquisite cock.

"You're made for this," the man says in a low, hypnotic tone. "You were made to spread your legs for my thick cock."

Draco's head thrashes against the silken pillow beneath him, his long hair tangling into hopeless rats' tails. "Yes," he gasps. "Made for you. Please."

He needs to come, so badly - he's on the cusp of his orgasm, but he can't spill over the precipice, can't begin his fall into white-hot bliss. And the green-eyed man is the only one who can give him that.

"Please!" he screams. 

His voice cracks, and something in his throat tears a little - he can taste blood on the back of his tongue. But the pain is nothing, it barely registers.

"Say, 'Please, Daddy,'" the green-eyed man tells him.

"Please, Daddy," Draco sobs out. Anything, whatever the man wants, if only the man will let him have what he needs. "Please, Daddy, please let me come."

"Say, 'Your babygirl needs to come, Daddy'," the man prompts him.

"Please, Daddy. Your babygirl needs to come, Daddy. Babygirl needs to come so bad."

It becomes a litany, falling from his lips without conscious thought, a mantra to the god who now owns his cock.

"Babygirl needs it, please, Daddy. Babygirl needs your cock. Please, Daddy, please... Please let your babygirl come!"

The green-eyed man's grin is fierce as he leans in to give Draco a sloppy, wet kiss. "Then come for me," he murmurs into Draco's mouth.

It's a dam breaking, a roaring fire, a blinding flash. Hot-wet come spurts between their bellies.

Green eyes disappear into a white haze.


	2. Chapter 2

When next he wakes, he's lying on his side with a warm body pressed up close behind him. He's sticky with sweat and his own come, and there's still something hard and thick lodged deep in his arse. He doesn't think it's the green-eyed man's cock this time. This is bigger, and it's stretched him just to the point of pain.

He feels utterly filthy, and more than a little ashamed, though he's not sure why.

"Are you awake?"

The man's breath tickles the shell of Draco's ear, and he can feel his face flush as he stares into the darkness.

"There's something--"

"Yeah, I've plugged you back up again," the man says, before Draco can finish the question. "The Healer says we should keep to as normal a routine as possible. And I know how much you love having your pussy all filled up with my come, baby."

Draco's not sure what to say to that. If it's normal, to wear this plug inside him, then why does it feel so wrong?

So many questions, and no answers except what the green-eyed man can give.

"How are you feeling, babygirl?"

Draco doesn't know what to say in response to that particular question. He clings instead to the part he's sure he understands.

"'m not a girl," he mumbles.

"You _are_ a girl," the man says, his voice suddenly sharp in Draco's ear. "You're _my_ girl, sweetheart. Daddy's sweet babygirl."

"But - I've got a cock," Draco tells him. 

His head feels swollen: a balloon drifting lazily on a current of the man's warm breaths, swaying back and forth like a serpent. The room spins, and he clutches at the muscled arm that's wrapped around his waist.

"You're my girl," the man repeats. "My wife," he adds, and Draco starts at the shock of those words.

"But--"

"But nothing."

The man's arm tightens at Draco's waist; it's strong as iron, and Draco feels strangely soft and weak next to that implacable strength. 

" _You're my wife_ ," the man says, his voice a low growl. "And what you hide beneath your skirts is no one's business but mine. Is that understood?"

It's clear by his tone that there's only one acceptable answer to that question.

"Yes," Draco whispers.

The man's arm relaxes again, and he strokes his fingers against Draco's quivering belly. "Good girl," he says softly. He sighs into Draco's hair.

"I saw you blank out again," the man says. "What did you forget this time?"

"Th-this time?"

"Mm-hmm." The man nuzzles at the nape of Draco's neck.

"It's happened a few times," he says. "You've blanked out and forgotten things here and there. But it'll all come back to you eventually, I'm sure."

He pushes the tangle of Draco's hair to one side and licks a slow stripe up Draco's neck, following the curve of his spine.

"As long as you haven't forgotten me," the man murmurs. "That's the important thing." He gives Draco a squeeze. "But you could never forget me - right, baby?"

"I--" Draco shudders. He tries to squirm away, to put some space between himself and the stranger, but he's locked firmly in place by that vice-like hold at his waist.

"I don't remember anything," he chokes out.

He has to swallow hard to fight back a sob. The words make everything he's feeling suddenly and undeniably _real_. Unavoidable. He's lost, completely adrift, with only this hard, green-eyed stranger to steer his course.

"Oh." The green-eyed man goes very still. "You don't remember me?"

Draco shakes his head, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

"At all?"

He shakes his head once more.

"Oh, baby. I'm so sorry," the man whispers. "You must be so frightened."

Draco can only nod in reply.

"Sweetheart. Turn around and look at me, baby."

Reluctantly Draco shifts to face the stranger, grimacing as the movement makes his over-stuffed arse twinge with sharp little shooting pains. He almost thinks he can feel the green-eyed man's come sloshing in his gut, plugged up tight inside him. It's not a pleasant sensation.

The man's eyes are still an unforgettable green, but they're softer now, washed pale in the moonlight. His face is stern, his jaw strong. His hair is a mop of messy black curls against the pillow they share.

The man looks at him for a long moment, then takes a deep, shuddering breath.

"I'm your husband," the man says softly. "Harry. Harry Potter." He pauses, biting at his full bottom lip. "You really don't remember me?"

"No," Draco whispers.

The man's disappointment is palpable. His eyes grow luminous; he blinks twice in quick succession, as though trying to force back tears.

"I really didn't think you'd forget _me_ ," he says again. He sounds so forlorn, like a lost child asking for his mummy.

"I'm sorry." Draco reaches with a shaking hand to trace the line of the man's jaw. "I wish I could remember you," he adds - and he's not lying, not really. But surely if he loved this man enough to marry him, he'd be able to remember that much at least? He feels nothing like love, though.

Shame, guilt, and fear, yes - but not love.

"Well." The man - Harry - sighs, his warm breath wafting over Draco's face. "I'm sure it will all come back to you soon. The Healer said to - well, he said that this might happen, and we're not to worry if it does." He takes another breath and lets it out slowly, visibly pulling himself back together. "So we won't worry, that's all."

"What happened to me?" Draco asks. His voice seems very small in the darkness, especially compared with Harry's deep rumble. "Why can't I remember?"

It's nagging at him, this not-right-ness, this feeling that he's missing something incredibly important. If he wasn't so firmly moored to this man, he's sure he'd be in a panic by now. As it is, he feels almost grateful to at least have this stranger - his husband - to keep him steady. To tell him how things ought to be.

"There was an accident...a fire. Two weeks ago - the day we got back from our honeymoon. Our house burned up completely. You - you barely got out in time." 

Harry's arms clutch Draco tight, drawing a startled gasp from his lips. 

"It's the trauma that's making you forget things. That's what the Healer says. Purely psychological - there's nothing the he can do. We just have to wait for your memories to come back on their own." Harry pauses, then adds, reluctantly: "If they come back."

A tear spills from the corner of Harry's eye, trickling down to dampen the pillow. The silence grows heavy between them, weighted down with fear and sorrow.

"It'll be okay," Draco ventures. He's not sure whom he's trying to reassure more - himself, or Harry. "I'm sure I'll remember you soon. Everything's going to be okay."

"Yes," Harry whispers, closing his eyes. "Yes. It'll all be okay now."


	3. Chapter 3

"Coco."

Draco frowns as a man's voice penetrates his consciousness. He knows that voice. Or he ought to know, at least - everything's gone all fuzzy in his mind, and there's just a big blank space where his memories should be.

"Coco, darling. It's time to wake up." A featherlight fingertip traces the curve of Draco's bottom lip.

He opens his eyes to find the green-eyed man - _Harry_ , the man said his name was Harry - smiling down at him. The mattress sinks as Harry kneels one denim-clad knee on the edge of the bed. He leans down to give Draco a very thorough kiss, claiming Draco's mouth with every invasive sweep of his tongue.

"Good morning, sweetheart," Harry says, smiling. He straightens and turns away to open the doors of a battered wardrobe. "Time to get up. You've overslept for once - I must have worn you out last night."

He pauses then, and casts a sidewise glance at Draco. "You haven't forgotten me again, have you?" He asks this with a little smile and a wink, as though it's a joke shared between them.

Draco shakes his head, hiding his blush behind the curtain of his hair as he thinks back on what he _does_ remember. Harry, fucking him. Making him scream. Harry. His husband, who clearly loves him. And - and whom he's supposed to love. He thinks.

"Oh, that's good," Harry says with clear relief. "Maybe we're finally on the way to getting you back to normal." 

"Do you - do you think I will be normal again?" Draco asks, fingers plucking nervously at the sheet that covers him.

"Of course you will, baby." Harry gives him a soft smile. "We'll make it right, you and I."

Draco nods, though he's not sure he believes it.

"I love you so much, you know," Harry says.

"I--" Draco swallows hard, and forces himself to meet Harry's eyes while he pushes the lie through his tight throat. "I love you too," he manages.

Harry's eyes darken, though his smile stays firmly in place. "Say it right, baby."

Draco blinks at him, startled. "I - I love you…Daddy?" he offers.

"Again," Harry murmurs. "Louder."

"I love you, Daddy." This time the words fall automatically from Draco's lips. Not quite natural, but easier than they were.

"You're perfect," Harry whispers. His smile shifts to a smirk. "God, I wish we had the time for our morning fuck, baby, but we have so many appointments to keep. But Daddy will definitely reward you later for that. Okay?"

Draco can only nod helplessly, bunching the sheets over his groin to hide his half-hard cock. He's so sore, he can't possibly want to go through all that again - but at the same time, he can feel how much he needs it. He needs Harry's cock like he needs to breathe.


	4. Chapter 4

The man - woman? - _creature_ in the mirror is a complete stranger to Draco.

The face is undeniably feminine: pale, smooth skin and lush, kiss-swollen lips; a softness in the cheeks and rounded jawline; heavy-lidded grey eyes with thick blond lashes. His hair is white-blonde, a heavy, silken mass, the ends just barely tickling the curve of his arse. His legs are long and smooth, his arms slender. His abs are soft and undefined, and he has just the barest suggestion of a rounded belly. But his shoulders are narrow, his hips narrower still, lacking any hint of femininity.

His breasts are shockingly huge for his thin frame, soft and pert, tipped with large, rosy nipples. His cock is long and thin, flaccid now against his thigh, and his balls are oddly hairless.

He is a strange amalgamation of features that sum up to an even stranger whole. That person in the mirror doesn't feel like _him_. He curls his lip at his reflection and deliberately turns his back on it.

The scalding-hot water feels good against his skin as he sluices away the itchy remnants of his own come. He stands for a long moment, swaying in place, and tries to savor the pleasure of feeling clean for the first time that he can remember. But his chest is tight, and it's hard to breathe in all the steam.

His breasts are quite sore to the touch when he soaps them down. They feel unnatural, and they get in his way when he reaches for soap and shampoo. They sway and they jiggle and they're heavy and he keeps knocking into them, causing a constant ache. But he grits his teeth and gets on with his wash, scrubbing as fast as he can.

The longer he spends away from Harry, the more anxiety begins to creep in. He needs to get back to Harry. The thought fills his brain, leaving little room for anything else. Just Harry. He needs Harry.

He dries himself off in a rush, and curses under his breath as he hurriedly drags a thin comb through the snarls in his hair. The comb snaps in his hand, unworthy as it is for the task.

He slips into the clothing Harry has provided him - a thin, clingy black dress that's just a bit too short for his liking, and a pair of lacy black knickers, skimpy enough to bring a blush to Draco's cheeks. The knickers hug his cock and balls too tightly, and the lace chafes at his tender skin. He wears them anyway. He's too desperate for Harry by now to take the time to look for anything else. If it wasn't for the plug in his arse, forcing him to slow and careful movements, he's sure he could have been with Harry already.

The shoes Harry left for him are a garish red and have sharp, pointy heels. He wobbles, coltish and unsteady, when he tries to walk in them. They pinch his toes and hurt the narrow arches of his feet. He nearly snaps an ankle when he tries to turn for the door.

And just as he stumbles, he can't help but catch another glimpse of his reflection. He has to pause to suck in a sharp breath, his physical discomfort briefly forgotten as he moves to take a closer look.

There's only a girl there now - a slender, pretty blonde looking back at him from the silvered glass. There's no sign of his cock, not even a bulge to show that he _has_ a cock, even when he smooths his hand down the front of his dress. He can feel the length of his cock under his hand, he can feel his balls, but he cannot see the shape of them where they should be.

Like magic. As if someone's cast a spell on him, to mold him into something that he's not. The thought makes him shiver. He stares, wide-eyed, at the trembling girl in the mirror, until the need for Harry spurs him into movement.

He chokes back a sob as he turns away.


	5. Chapter 5

Draco finds Harry in the kitchen, after a maddeningly slow descent of two full flights of stairs. Harry stands over a sizzling pan on an old-fashioned stove, a spatula in one hand and a chipped china teacup in the other. He's prodding something with the spatula, an intent frown on his features.

It's all Draco can do not to sob in sheer relief at the sight of him. The anxiety coils still in his belly, pushing him into the room on shaky legs, high heels clicking an uncertain rhythm. He stands by the table, hugging himself, while he waits for Harry to acknowledge him.

Harry glances up and smiles, giving Draco a quick once-over. His green eyes darken. His smile verges on a leer. 

"Very nice," he drawls. He sets down the cup and spatula and props his hip against the counter, beckoning Draco closer with a crook of his finger.

With the heels to boost his height Draco easily meets Harry's kiss. They're almost starting to feel natural, those kisses. As though his lips were made for them. He likes the way they make him feel - all warm and tingly, and a bit light-headed. And he really likes Harry's callused hand trailing up his bare thigh to cup the lace-covered globe of his arse beneath the dress.

The anxiety is immediately soothed by Harry's touch, his kiss. Draco feels a bit silly in its wake. Harry hadn't been all that far away, really.

"The kettle's hot," Harry says when he finally ends the kiss. He gives Draco's arse a pinch, making him yelp. "Go ahead and fix your cuppa, love, while I get the food on the table."

Draco fumbles through pouring the water and dunking the teabag. It's a simple task but it feels awkward - he could almost swear he's never fixed a cup of tea before in his life. He stares at it while it steeps. He can't even remember how he takes his tea.

"Three sugars," Harry prompts him. "No milk."

"Right," Draco murmurs, casting his gaze about for the sugar bowl.

He hears Harry's chuckle at his ear, and then Harry's just behind him, sugar bowl in one hand, the other briefly resting on Draco's hip. "It's like you've never fixed your own cuppa before," he says, echoing Draco's thoughts.

Harry tips three heaping spoonfuls of sugar into Draco's tea and stirs, then carries the cup to the table. He pulls Draco's chair out, waiting while Draco carefully, painfully settles into it, before turning to take his own seat.

The heavy, greasy scents of Harry's huge fry-up only serve to make Draco nauseous. He nibbles at a piece of toast instead, and slowly sips at his tea. He can't help but grimace at the flavor: it's weak, and far too sweet. He drinks it anyway. 

If Harry says he takes tea with three sugars, then that's what he'll do. If Harry says he's supposed to wear a dress and lacy knickers, then that's what he'll wear. He can only hope that things will start to feel more natural to him, in time. Maybe then his memories will come back.

"Coco," Harry says softly.

Draco jumps, sending hot tea sloshing over the rim of his cup.

Harry chuckles as he pushes a towel across the table. "Sorry," he says. "You seemed miles away from me."

Draco blots up the spill. "I was just--" He breaks off, staring at Harry, the damp towel clutched in a white-knuckled grip. "Did - did you just call me Coco?" he asks, as the name finally sinks in. 

Harry'd called him Coco earlier too, he thinks. But it had gone right over Draco's head, lost in the general confusion.

"Of course I did," Harry says with a puzzled frown. "That's your name, sweetheart. Coco Potter."

"But--" 

Draco rubs at his temples - he feels so dizzy all of a sudden.

"Last night you called me Draco," he says.

Harry's eyes widen in surprise. "What an odd name," he murmurs. "Why would I call you that? You must have misheard me."

Harry's words seem to come from so far away. Draco can barely process them - they just don't make any sense in his head.

"I swear, that's what I heard." Tears prick at Draco's eyes. He blinks rapidly, trying to keep them from spilling over. "Draco. You called me Draco." 

He doesn't know why he keeps insisting - clearly Harry knows these things better than he does right now. Doesn't he? And if Draco's going to take Harry's word for everything else, then why not on the matter of his name, too? 

But calling himself Draco just feels _right_ , in a way that nothing else has so far.

"Coco. Sweetheart. You must have just--"

"I _know_ what I heard!" Draco winces at the shrill, hysterical tone of his voice. He takes a shuddering breath, searching for calm. "I know you called me Draco," he adds weakly. His head begins to pound in earnest; he curls in on himself, hiding his head in his hands.

Harry sighs and pushes away from the table. "I'll show you," he says gently. "Wait here, baby."

He's only gone for a moment, but to Draco the wait seems interminable as his anxiety rises once more to choke him. He can't bear to be without Harry. He needs to be with Harry. He needs Harry.

"Shh, love." Harry sets something down on the table with a clatter, then pulls Draco up and into his arms. "It's all right. I've got you."

"D-don't leave m-me," Draco manages through his too-tight throat. He presses his face against Harry's chest and gulps down the sobs that struggle to break free. "Please don't leave me."

"I'm not going anywhere, baby. I'm here for you, always," Harry says, rubbing slow circles against Draco's back. "I just went to get our marriage certificate, darling. So you can see the names for yourself."

Draco blinks the tears from his eyes so that he can look at the framed certificate on the table. It certainly looks official - there's a seal and everything. And there are the signatures: Harry James Potter, in an untidy scrawl; and Coco Lucrece Malloy, in elegant loops and whorls.

"Your name," Harry says, pointing to the second signature. "Though you're officially a Potter now, of course," he adds with a grin. "Coco - Lucrece - Malloy - Potter." He punctuates each word with a quick kiss to Draco's lips. "So let's hear no more of this nonsense, all right? It was all a misunderstanding, sweetheart. Just a silly little mixup in your pretty head."

"Okay," Draco whispers. His fingers have somehow clenched in Harry's jumper, unconsciously clinging. He takes a deep breath and carefully relaxes them, then smooths out the wrinkles he's caused in the fabric. 

"Okay," he says again, with more confidence. "I believe you, Harry." 

He tries to smile, for Harry's sake, and is relieved when Harry gives him a pleased smile in return.

The proof is right there, after all, and completely irrefutable. Even if he can't think of himself as Coco just yet. Or as Harry's wife.

Perhaps if he just keeps reminding himself of these things, eventually they'll start to feel real.


	6. Chapter 6

Draco's day passes in a haze of increasing misery.

There are appointments at the clothier's, the shoemaker's, the solicitor's, the realtor's, the bank. Standing, sitting, up, down, signing, walking, fitting, twirling, showing off for Harry's pleasure.

His arse throbs. His feet ache. Every step is twofold agony. And his belly cramps constantly, sharp spikes of pain that rob him of his ability to breathe for long moments.

Each attempt to ask for a rest is met with a gentle block on Harry's part. 

Befuddlement, when Draco asks when he can stop trying on the clothes, the shoes, the lingerie. "But you love to shop, baby. I thought you'd enjoy replacing your wardrobe."

Patient refusal, when Draco asks to re-schedule the visits with the bank, or the solicitor. "We've already re-scheduled twice because of the fire, and they've been so accommodating to fit us in at the last minute. I couldn't possibly ask them to re-schedule yet again."

Indulgent laughter, when Draco asks whether they really need to meet with a realtor. "We need a home of our own again, love - not some grim last-minute rental. You'll be far more comfortable once we've properly settled in somewhere, don't you think?"

He knows Harry's only trying to be helpful, trying to fit him back into a normal routine again. But by the time they arrive at the realtor's, Draco has sunk into a numb fog, hobbling in Harry's wake as fast as the pain will allow.

"Aww, babygirl," Harry murmurs as they take their seats in the reception area. "You look a bit done in, sweetheart."

Draco can only nod; his teeth are tightly clenched in order to keep from crying out when his arse meets the chair. As solicitous as Harry's been - so kind, so patient and so generous - Draco can't bear to disappoint him by complaining.

"Shall we keep things to a minimum, then, with the house-hunting today?"

Draco gives him a pleading look, his eyes wide. Harry laughs softly.

"All right," he says, with an indulgent pat to Draco's thigh. "As my lady wishes."

But the minute the realtor steps out to greet them, Draco can tell by the excitement in Harry's face that they're going to be viewing "just one more, sweetheart," for longer than he can possibly bear.

He's halfway out of the chair when his vision goes black.


	7. Chapter 7

The realtor keeps trying to catch Draco's eye. He's kindly enough, and his face is creased with concern, but Draco's far too embarrassed by his little fainting spell to make polite conversation.

It's strange - he doesn't even know why he'd thought he was in so much pain before. His arse is pleasantly full, but he feels barely a twinge now and again - only when he forgets himself and moves too quickly, which he's mostly managing not to do. And yes, his feet ache, but in a good way. It means he's adjusting to the heels; he's learning to walk without stumbling.

He feels as though he's accomplished something. As though he's taken the first step towards becoming Harry's wife again. And he'd be quite proud of himself for bearing up under all the stress and confusion, if only it hadn't been for that one little mishap. And in front of so many people, too. Harry hadn't been pleased with him, that was certain.

"There are five bedrooms on the second level," the realtor says as he and Harry turn for the stairs. "And the attic space could easily be converted..."

It's the fifth house they've viewed that afternoon, and will likely be the last as daylight is beginning to wane. Harry's frowning, though, which is not a good sign. He's not liked any of the houses they've seen thus far.

Draco thinks they've all been quite fine, if a little...bland.

He doesn't bother following the men upstairs - by the time he would have reached the second level, Harry will have already seen everything there is to see. And, as Harry has rightly pointed out, there's no point in Draco making the effort to go up if he's only going to come straight back down again. So he does his best to swallow his anxiety as he watches Harry disappear up the stairs. 

The separation gets easier each time, but he still has to bite his lip to stifle the impulse to call Harry back.

He revisits the kitchen instead, in search of a distraction. He trails his fingers over the shiny new appliances and opens their heavy doors, trying to divine the purpose of each. They're terribly confusing. Harry has said that Draco is an accomplished cook, yet he can't picture using any of these devices - can't even imagine how they might be coaxed into service.

He rubs at his temple as his head begins to pound, the dull ache catching him unawares.


	8. Chapter 8

"They were far too small, all of them," Harry says once they've settled into a taxi. "And no room for expansion, either. We may have to look further out into the country if we're going to find a place with enough rooms. A big estate home, perhaps. Something with some acreage would be nice, even if it means giving up the convenience of the city."

"Do we really need something so large?"

"We do if we're going to get started on that family you've been wanting," Harry says.

Draco's eyes widen in alarm. A family?

"But--" he says - and there he stops, biting his lip, mindful of the cabbie listening in on their conversation. He swallows the question he wants to ask: how can he provide Harry with a child?

"You've said more than once that you wanted a big family. Six or seven, to start with," Harry says with a wink.

"S-seven?"

Harry's grin is buoyant as he scoops Draco up, settling him sideways on his lap.

"I can't wait to see you pregnant with my child," he murmurs. He rests his hand possessively on the slight swell of Draco's belly. "You'll be so beautiful."

"But I can't--" Draco whispers. He ducks his head, unable to meet Harry's eyes.

"Hey." Harry gently grasps Draco's chin, forcing his head up so that Draco cannot help but look at him. "We'll get you your babies, sweetheart. If we have to visit every fertility clinic in the country to do it."

Draco's certain there's not a fertility clinic in the _world_ that could help him, but he doesn't dare say so aloud. He honestly doesn't think he'd want children, anyway, even if he could get pregnant.

And just like that he can feel his eyes filling up with tears as confusion swamps him all over again.

Nothing is right, nothing makes sense. Even his own body is alien to him, nevermind what he's supposed to want and need. Every time Harry tells him something about himself, he feels as though they might as well be talking about a complete stranger. How can this be _him_? Coco Potter? Wife? Mother? All foreign concepts. Nothing that he can relate to, in any shape or form.

"Shh," Harry whispers. He pulls Draco close, his arms wrapped tight around Draco's shoulders. Draco tucks his head beneath Harry's chin and lets the fabric of Harry's jumper soak up the silent tears that spill down his cheeks.

"I'll make it happen," Harry says softly. "You'll see. Our life will be perfect."

And Draco's damned if he can remember why those words should send a chill running down his spine.


	9. Chapter 9

"Eat," says Harry. His eyes are dark, his jaw clenched. "I won't have you fainting on me again. People will think that I don't know how to properly care for my own wife."

"I'm really not very hungry," Draco murmurs. He bows his head, his gaze fixed on the tiny piece of veal he's currently pushing through the creamy sauce on his plate. "I'm sorry, Harry, but I just can't. I'm so full I could burst."

"You had half a piece of toast for breakfast, you barely nibbled on your salad at lunch, and you've eaten all of two bites of your veal. It's no wonder you fainted today, baby. I know you're watching your figure, but you've got to eat _something_ if you want to keep your strength up."

Draco nods, reluctantly. Harry's right, of course. But his stomach gives a sickening lurch at just the thought of eating another bite.

Harry's voice softens, gently coaxing. "Please, sweetheart. I won't worry so much if I know you're at least trying. For me."

Draco swallows hard and lifts the piece of veal to his mouth, chewing as slowly as he can. His stomach cramps, bile rising in his throat, but he manages to force it down.

"Thank you," Harry says quietly. "Now take a deep breath, let that one settle. You can try for another in a minute."

Draco quickly presses his napkin to his mouth to stifle his moan. He glances at the other tables; fortunately no one seems to be taking any notice of his distress. Their waiter catches his eye, one eyebrow raised in query, but Draco swiftly shakes his head and drops his gaze.

"Harry," he whispers, "please don't make me eat anymore. I can't do it."

"Yes you can, sweetheart."

Draco chances a quick look, but Harry's face is set in hard lines - there's no hope of reprieve.

He manages to swallow another bite, and then another. It's all he can do to keep them down. His belly feels hugely bloated, ready to pop.

"Good girl," Harry finally says, much to Draco's relief. "I think that's enough for tonight. But we're going to have to work on this, baby. You need to eat properly."

Draco nods as he sets the fork down, pushing the plate as far away from himself as he can. He can still smell it, though, and it's sickening. He swallows hard and focuses on taking shallow breaths through his mouth.

"Can we go home, please, Harry?"

"I'm still waiting on my dessert," Harry reminds him.


	10. Chapter 10

He's naked, except for his knickers and heels - because, according to Harry, he prefers to wear as little clothing as possible when they're home alone. It doesn't feel natural, and he thinks his blush will never fade, but he's starting to believe that nothing is ever going to feel just right to him. All he can do is try to make the best of things. To pick up the pieces of his life, as he's given them, and somehow make them fit.

Even if the shape they make will never feel like _him_. Clearly his sense of himself is not to be trusted.

He's seated in the vee of Harry's legs, his back to Harry's chest, his own legs draped over the arms of the overstuffed chair. His thighs burn from the strain of keeping his legs so far apart. But this is their routine, Harry tells him. This is their normal.

Harry's hands are gently rubbing the tiny swollen mound of his belly. The feeling of impossible fullness has eased, if only a little. His stomach isn't cramping quite so much anymore.

A glass of bitter wine has made him drowsy, and he's drifting to the sound of the tinny voice coming from Harry's picture-box. A telling, Harry called it, though Draco's not really listening to what it's telling him. Something about the pyramids, he thinks. He doesn't really care about the pyramids: he's much more fascinated by the contrast of Harry's tanned hands against his own pale skin. But the rhythmic cadence of the anonymous voice is very soothing.

"Feeling better?" Harry asks him.

"Yes, Harry," he murmurs. "Thank you."

Harry's chest shakes when he laughs; the movement jostles Draco as well, making his breasts wobble and sway.

"Why so formal, sweetheart? It's just the two of us."

"Hmm?"

"Say it properly, now. Go on."

"Mmm." Draco has to think a moment; his mind is working at a sluggish pace. "Um. I mean. Yes, Daddy?"

"And?"

"Thank you, Daddy."

"Very good, sweetheart." Harry's voice is warm with approval. "Now say, 'I love you, Daddy,'" he prompts.

"I love you, Daddy," Draco repeats dutifully.

"And Daddy loves you too, babygirl," Harry says.

The sound of the telling-box drops to a faint murmur in the background.

"Now say it again, sweetheart. Daddy really needs to hear you say it." Harry's voice is soft and hypnotic.

"I love you, Daddy."

"Keep saying it," Harry tells him. "Until you mean it."

"Yes, Daddy. I love you, Daddy," Draco murmurs. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift. "I love you, Daddy. I love you, Daddy..."


	11. Chapter 11

He's having the strangest dream.

It starts out so beautifully, with Harry touching his breasts. His nipples are sore, but Harry's touch is gentle, a barely-there caress. It's nice. It gets so much better, though, when Harry kneads all around them with his fingertips. It makes Draco's breasts ache, but they feel so good at the same time, sending little ripples of pleasure straight to his cock.

But there's a pointed stick stabbing at his bloated belly, disturbing his lovely dream. His hands flop feebly when he tries to push the wand away.

"Keep her still, mate - I can't see."

The voice is vaguely familiar, but Draco can't pin a name to it. He thinks it must come from the telling-box.

Harry's hands slide down to grip Draco's hips, pinning Draco's arms under his. Draco doesn't want this - he wants Harry's hands back on his breasts, and opens his mouth to say so. But all he can manage is a garbled moan. His tongue is dry and too-thick, refusing to cooperate. 

"Well, this is _much_ better than I expected," the stranger says cheerfully. "I think we're definitely on the right track."

The wand pokes Draco's belly again, just as he's hit with a particularly vicious cramp. He cries out and tries to roll away from the wand. Harry's hands won't let him move.

His voice is a low rumble in Draco's ear. "So it's really working, then?"

"It's trying. See how her magic has pooled here? That's perfect - that's exactly what we're looking for."

"Perfect," Harry murmurs. His hands are tight on Draco's hips, gripping hard enough to bruise.

"She's already responding to the powdered unicorn horn - she's priming up to create life. And this is her magic working to make a space to grow that life into."

Draco shivers through another sharp pain in his belly.

"So is she--"

"Not yet," the stranger says. "But it shouldn't be too long now. We just need to convince her magic to interact with the residual magic in your sperm, instead of simply feeding off the extra energy. But how well that works should depend on how receptive she is to you. Theoretically, anyway."

"She's been very receptive so far," Harry drawls. His hands come back up to cup Draco's breasts; he rolls them in his palms, gently squeezing. Draco arches his back, pushing his chest into Harry's hands, moaning in a wordless plea for more.

"So I see," the voice says dryly. "She'll be preggers tomorrow at this rate."

Harry laughs at that, pinching Draco's breasts hard enough that he yelps in pain.

"Right then, Harry," the stranger says. "She's nearly used up this lot, so you can give her another go tonight. And let's keep it at the same dosage on the unicorn horn for now--"

"About that," says Harry. "It's making her sick, I think. She's not eating."

"So feed her more often," says the voice. "Keep her nibbling all day long if you have to. She's only going to want a few bites at a time - I'm sure she's feeling very full."

"Plugged up right and tight," Harry says with dark satisfaction. "Aren't you, babygirl," he murmurs in Draco's ear.

Draco whines as Harry's fingers give his nipple a particularly sharp twist.

"Ah, Harry," the stranger says with a laugh. "What a wonderfully pervy lad you've turned out to be. Just make sure you remember those cleansing spells - you really don't want a kid with shit for brains."

"Ha. Very ha. And, speaking of - how's Pansy, then?"

There's another sharp bark of laughter. "Daft as ever. But ridiculously easy to impregnate, especially when compared with your little darling. You should have picked out a proper girl."

"I could have," says Harry. "But I wanted the _perfect_ one."


	12. Chapter 12

The irritating voice has finally taken itself off. Draco is left to drift in his pleasant haze, the dream already slipping from his mind. There are no pointed sticks. No confusing conversations. Just Harry's hands, plucking and kneading and stroking, and the high, breathy sounds that Draco's making in response.

"Such a sweet babygirl," Harry sighs. He shifts under Draco, his hard, denim-trapped cock rubbing against Draco's plugged arse.

"Are you awake, love?"

Draco tries to nod. His head lolls against Harry's chest, heavy and useless; his thoughts are treacle-thick. When he tries to open his eyes, his eyelids are heavy as lead, and it's more than he can manage to lift them.

"Daddy wants to fuck you just like this, babygirl. All soft and relaxed and helpless."

"Nngh," Draco says in agreement.

Harry slips his right hand beneath the damp and scratchy lace of Draco's knickers, stretching them until the lace gives way with a soft rip. His fingers curl loosely around the shaft of Draco's cock, while his thumb presses into the slit; he spreads Draco's pre-come all around the head with the pad of his thumb.

Draco rocks his hips, squirming in Harry's lap, trying to coordinate his limbs well enough to push up into Harry's hand.

"Your knickers are so wet for me already," Harry says with a chuckle. "Just from playing with your tits. I bet I could get you to come just from that if I wanted to. Couldn't I, pretty."

Draco can only moan in reply. His toes curl inside his too-tight shoes; the sharp, spiky heels gouge into the sides of the armchair.

"And you didn't even want them," Harry murmurs. "But it's like I _always_ tell you, sweetheart: Daddy really does know best." He laughs softly. "Maybe this time you'll remember that, yeah?"

He gives Draco's cock one slow, languid pull, chuckling as Draco whines and pants and tries to follow Harry's hand with his hips.

"Shh, baby," Harry whispers, withdrawing his hand from Draco's knickers. "It's Daddy's turn now."

Draco's world abruptly tilts on his axis. He's lifted up, his head flopping back over the flexing muscles in Harry's arm; then he's flying, falling, coming to rest in Harry's chair, curling into the warmth that still lingers in the fabric.

His knickers are yanked abruptly downwards, and he cries out as the rough lace catches on his cock. The knickers are shoved down past his knees, tangling around his ankles - and then they're gone, much to his relief. Harry drags Draco's arse to the edge of the chair, and his shoulders force Draco's knees to spread wide. Draco gasps as Harry's fingers delve into the cleft of his arse, grasping the base of the plug and slowly, oh so slowly dragging the hard length free.

The plug drops to the carpet with a thud, and Harry stills.

Draco keens at the hollow, aching emptiness between his legs. He can feel his hole gaping wide. Warm, wet liquid trickles into his crack - Harry's come, seeping slickly out of him.

"D-daddy," he says thickly, forcing his wayward tongue to bend around the syllables. "Daddy. P-please." 

He needs, sweet Circe, he needs Harry's cock so much he can't bear it, and he can't make his mouth fit around the words to beg for what he needs.

"Daddy," he moans. He opens his eyes, tries to lift his head to look down, but all he can see is a dazzle of light and color. Harry's little more than a dark, dark shadow between his legs.

"Such a pretty pink cunt," Harry whispers. He slides a fingertip around the swollen, sensitive rim of Draco's hole, drawing a hoarse cry from Draco's throat. "Just look at you, baby." Harry traces his fingertip through the thick dribble of his come dripping out of Draco's arse. "Look how wet your pussy is for me."

"Daddy, please," Draco whispers.

"My little slut," Harry says fondly as he shoves three fingers into Draco's hole. "You're already so hot and loose, ready for Daddy's cock to fill you up."

"Please…" Draco tries to push back against the fingers fucking his arse. They're making such filthy wet sounds, and Draco can feel his skin turning red with his humiliation, but the need overwhelms all else. He'll go _mad_ if he doesn't have Harry's cock soon. He needs it. Needs Harry's cock, needs Harry's come to fill him up.

Harry scoots Draco back, spreading his legs wide to hook them over the arms of the chair.

"You told me once," Harry says breathlessly as he lifts Draco up, "that I couldn't have everything I wanted. That I couldn't have you."

Draco's back is braced against the chair, his head hanging back over the edge. The chair teeters, wobbling backwards, until Harry kneels on the edge of the seat. He positions his cock, lets Draco slide down, Harry's cock slipping slick and easy into Draco's well-stretched hole. Harry grunts and holds him still for a moment, nuzzling at his hair.

Draco sags in Harry's hold, limp as a ragdoll.

"Well, I've got you," Harry whispers. "And I've got it all. Almost everything I ever wanted, baby."

"Please," Draco whispers. He wriggles feebly, but he's pinned in place, by Harry's hands and his own heavy limbs. "Please," he says with a whimper.

"The perfect slut," Harry murmurs, as he begins to move. "The perfect wife," he gasps. "And soon we'll be a perfect family."

Draco wails as Harry's cock drags repeatedly over his prostate, hitting the little bundle of nerves with every other thrust. His back is rubbing raw against the chair but he can barely feel it, focused as he is on the pleasure, on the feel of Harry's cock driving into him. His own cock leaks untouched against his belly, his balls drawn up high and tight. He doesn't need any more than this. He could come like this. If only Harry would say the words.

"I can't believe how responsive you've been," Harry says. "How _easy_. I never knew that you could be so--"

He breaks off, leaning back to slide a hand between their bellies. His fingers close around Draco's cock, squeezing tight.

"Come for me, baby," Harry whispers.

"Daddy!" Draco screams, his back arching, his heels kicking as his cock spurts, his hot come spilling over Harry's clenched fist.

"Perfect," Harry whispers.


End file.
